Taming the Bitch (COMPLETED)

Chapter LXI - MY IMMORTAL

The vase he always woke up to, resting atop the side table of his godforsaken suite in this ancient castle, shattered into a thousand pieces as he hurled it to the floor. Rage and frustration consumed him after his "so-called" wife had walked out of the room with a broken-hearted expression for the tenth time.

He was turning into something even he feared. Not merely a grumpy old man... no, he was becoming a monster—a monster she had somehow always brought out in him.

A bloody beautiful woman. And somehow, God only knew how long, his wife.

He breathed heavily, cupping his throbbing temple as pain shot through it, igniting his veins as though they might explode from his cracked skull.

"Mr Walton..." The nurse's voice rang out, annoyingly squeaky despite the man's bodybuilder frame.

Gabrielle always called on him for help. Vincent wondered, with bitter irony, if this man was paid simply as a nurse—or for something else entirely.

He could not play that part. Not now.

Glaring at the man in front of him, Vincent reached for the walker beside his bed. Of course, he couldn't walk yet.

And Gabrielle, with that soft, irritatingly kind voice, telling him not to push himself too hard, drove him to a fury. He flung the tray of food she held, the plate colliding with her arm to the shock of both nurse and woman.

She clenched her jaw, exhaled calmly, and—gone. The bloody, battered woman was already gone, leaving him alone with his anger, his helplessness, his guilt.

He hated himself. Hated that he could not do the simplest things he once could. Hated having to be fed by her, moved by her, stretched by her. Hated that his heart betrayed him at the sight of her dimples, the sweep of her cheekbones, the warmth of her kind, unwavering eyes. Hated that he longed for her even as his body demanded independence, even as his pride burned at the very thought of needing her. Most of all, he hated that her beauty—soft, unassuming, yet devastating—made him mad. It enraged him that someone so fragile, so composed, could hold such power over him, igniting every frustration, every weakness, every unspent longing at once.

And then, just like that, it hit him again, twisting his mind with disbelief: I actually married her. That scandalous, infuriatingly bold woman—who moved through the world like she owned it, who challenged him, teased him, defied him—was his wife. The thought was almost unbearable, a mix of awe, frustration, and lingering confusion. His amnesia gnawed at him, leaving fragments of memories he couldn't trust, yet the pull she had on him was undeniable. How did this happen? How could I have let this woman—this impossible, maddening, scandalous woman—be mine?

He attempted to stand with the walker, nearly collapsing until the nurse caught him. Cursing, Vincent threw himself back into the wheelchair.

"Fucking get me out of this hell!" he barked, then immediately changed his mind.
"Fucking leave me alone!"

He struck the nurse's arm in frustration, the redness marking the blow. What would it have done to Gabrielle's pearl-white skin?

"Shit!" he muttered, manoeuvring the wheelchair out of the room—a room he was warned never to leave alone.

The only rooms he'd ever been allowed in this castle were his therapy spaces and this one, where the woman he despised acted as both his wife and his doctor.

He reached the foot of the grand staircase, gripping the armrests, eyes locked on the hallway. Glancing back, he saw her: Gabrielle, wearing the worst colour he'd ever seen on her that morning—a mandarin-orange loose dress. Matte satin flowed over her skin, clinging just enough to accentuate her form, her bare face untouched by makeup. Her lips were blood-red, her nose pointed, her jaw sharp. Sin personified.